Cellar Boy
by amarafay
Summary: My interpretation of Erik's early life, told through the POV of himself and his two brothers. I know there's a lot of these, but hey, it's Erik. How can you say no? Chapter 2 added!
1. Birth

AN: My first attempt at phanphiction, so try to be gentle! Most of the content is going to be from the novel instead of the play. Basically, it's the story of Erik's early life told through him, his older brother Inger, and his younger brother Sven. They're all looking back on their lives, because no matter how smart Erik may be, I don't think he remembers his birth very vividly. The narrators will be named before each section. If you have any questions, feel free to e-mail me or something. Btw, this isn't based on Susan Kay's "Phantom". I haven't even read that yet, but the order for the book should be coming in soon :). Enjoy! ~ amarafay  
  
  
  
Cellar Boy  
  
Chapter 1: Birth  
  
Erik  
  
When I was born, the world screamed in horror. When my mother first saw my face, she asked if I could be drowned, as one might say about a cat that has done much wrong in a household. Yet, unlike the cat, I know what my wrong was. I was born. Neighbors would whisper through keyholes and cracks in gates, saying that my mother was a witch and that I was the result of an encounter with Satan. Our family was shunned.   
  
The priest came one day, in hopes that he cold destroy this living terror that was my outer being and leave behind a soft, cooing baby. The priest blessed me, bathed me in holy water, draped rosaries around me, and even attempted to exorcise a demon. I sighed softly and contentedly at the only man to ever hold me tenderly. I was dropped into my crib as the priest told my mother there was no hope. She collapsed into my father's arms and cried. The priest explained that because of my appearance, I must belong to Satan, so the bible called for me to be destroyed. Then, he said that Satan though I may be, it was still a mortal sin to kill one's own child. Any actions my parents took would lead to damnation. In fear and confusion (and so they wouldn't have anything to do with me), I was sent to live in the cellar, with spiders as companions.   
  
In the weeks that followed, distant relatives sent me gift after gift, not knowing of my repulsive features. Of course, these gifts were meant for lovely children, not for monsters like me. All the gifts were kept (in those days it was the custom to have many children) and were given to the child to be called Sven. Only one gift was exchanged. A stroller. It was beautiful with shiny wheels and downy cushioning inside; the kind of stroller a proud mother would use to display her child. Not my mother, of course. My mother would die if I ever left the house. The stroller was exchanged for a mask. Something to cover up my hideous face. I rejected it in its extreme discomfort, as most infants would do, but my parents (if I so choose to call them that) persisted, and the mask stayed. Soon after, even the spiders fled from the cellar, and I was left alone in the dark. No one there but poor, poor Erik.   
  
  
  
Inger  
  
He was a monster. I did not know much then, but that was one fact that came as natural to me as breathing. My brother was a spawn of Satan, brought to earth through my poor mother.   
  
When I caught my first glimpse of his face, I hid in my room and had nightmares for days. I could not sleep; I could not eat, not with the knowledge of the terror in my home. I was too young to behold him at the time. My mother said it would ruin my innocence. But still, I had to see who this brother Erik was, and why he must be kept in the cellar. After all, I had always wanted a brother to play with.   
  
After sleep had overpowered my grieving parents, I crept down the hall with a small lantern crafted especially for me by my uncle. He told me it would always keep me safe. I thought that maybe, when I had outgrown this tiny children's lantern, I could present it to the new brother to keep him safe as it had done for me. How foolish I was to ignore my mother's warnings of his ugliness!   
  
I turned a corner and opened the cellar door. The stairs creaked with my every step. I noted how dirty and musty everything was. This was no place for a baby, I thought to myself. Once I find Erik, I shall let him share a bed with me, just like real brothers do! I reassured myself proudly. My little lantern shone on a crib where a little figure was beginning to stir. I beamed proudly at the sight of the boy who I thought would follow my every move, once I taught him how to walk. I thought that his first word was destined to be Inger, after the brother whom he adored so much. Looking back at my actions now, I realize that my parents never permitted him to know the names of his "brothers". I continued to approach the crib, brushing off the yellow color of his skin.   
  
I eagerly leaned over the rails of the crib and wailed in terror at what lay before me. It was more a living skeleton than a brother! His skin really was a sickening yellow, and his face, oh God, his face! His nose was missing entirely and his eyes were two dark circles. When, in my fright, I dropped the lantern, I could see that his eyes were golden and glowing with the fires of a thousand scorching hells! This creature was my brother! He was smiling at me. I know that he was planning to somehow posses my soul, for what else reason do demons smile other than inflicting torture upon mortals?   
  
My parents rushed out of slumber and ran down to me. They picked me up and whisked me away into the living room, where I was badly shaking. "Why did you do this, my son?!" my father demanded. "Why did you let your curiosity overcome you and look at the most hideous face ever imagined?" Thinking that if I blamed it on curiosity I would be punished, I lied.   
  
"He called me, daddy. I heard him calling my name in a deep voice!" I responded. It was for the better that I lied. It only caused him to be shunned farther away from our family and our world. While my mother held me to her breast, my father walked swiftly to the cellar door and bolted it shut. I was sent to bed, to lay awake with the burning image of the monster in the cellar. 


	2. Self-Taught Genius

AN: Hey everyone! Glad you liked the first chapter, so I decided to continue. See what happens when you review? Anyway, this chapter is (in my opinion) even more depressing than the first so if that one was too overwhelmingly depressing for you, this one might not be a good idea. PG rating because of extreme child neglect. Also, in this chapter and further chapters there's a little bit of TMI (too much information) material. Oh yeah, I don't own Erik or any other characters from the book that I might mention. BTW, after skimming through the book, I realized that Erik told Christine he had no nationality or home country. Since Erik is a Scandinavian name, that's going to be his origin. Keep the reviews coming! Hope you like this chapter, and tell me if I should continue! ~ amarafay   
  
Cellar Boy  
  
Chapter 2: Self-Taught Genius  
  
Erik   
  
Days passed on, months came and went. I was a growing toddler now, old enough to grasp my surroundings, but still too young to realize the severity of my conditions. I find it a miracle that my parents even kept me alive. As soon as I was old enough to crawl, food was slipped through a slot in the door. I was left to fend for myself with feeding from then on. Before, my mother had fed me as little as possible and as fast as I could swallow. When I was done, she had run up the stairs before I could even smile at her in delight. As for diapers and onwards, I was taught, but only so the cellar where my parents kept their fine wines would not smell like human waste. But that's what I was to them. Waste. If I had the need to use "the facilities", my father would have to segregate everyone to the attic, where they prayed for their souls for harboring Satan in their home.   
  
I did not learn to walk until I was three years of age. No one had taught me. I had seen my mother and father do it, so I inferred that it was the correct way to move. After all, my knees and palms were undergoing much wear and tear from crawling on the merciless stone floor. First, I learned to balance by grasping on to the bars of my crib and just standing for a while. When that became easy for me, I would wobble my legs around, and I soon took my first step. I screamed in ecstasy at my achievements. As soon as I was practiced in this art, I climbed the stairs. Surely my parents would marvel at how intelligent their young son was! But no, my parents only looked upon it as a further horror of my being.   
  
Because the cellar had no light, I did not know what was night and what was day. I had barely ever seen the sun. So, it was night when I first climbed the stairs. I studied the door for a moment, and then found a trick to get it open by picking the lock from the inside. Even then, I knew much about the art of escape. As I was adept to seeing in the dark after being locked in my prison for so long, I had no trouble navigating around the house. The only obstruction was that I did not know where anything in my own home was. Imagine not knowing anything about your home after living there all your life! With some difficulty, I found my parents bedroom and walked through the open doorway.   
  
Seeing as they were sleeping, I let out a loud, powerful note to announce my arrival. My mother sat up and screamed. Why were they not happy to see my achievement? Was I doing it wrong? My father lit a candle and gasped at me. I, thinking it was a gasp of surprise and happiness, began to waddle in my unlearned way towards him. He screamed also and grabbed me by the waist. I was lifted up and carried into the cellar and again was bolted inside.   
  
I did not receive food for three days afterward. I never walked in front of my parents again.   
  
Learning to talk was another difficulty. I had no idea what words meant. All I knew how to do was to produce lovely tones and music. Is it not strange that a man who was to deceive a young girl into thinking he was the Angel of Music had no formal introduction to the arts? I would sing sometimes to the music my mother played for company. The guests would ask who was singing, and my mother would call me a siren to make her guests think badly of me. The first real word I ever learned to say was "monster", for that was the word that I heard most often. Everything else I learned about speech, I had to pick up from listening to my parents' conversations on the floor above me. I then learned to say normal things like "How are you?" and "Goodnight". I had to guess their meanings by the tones in the voice. Again, I decided to show my talents to my parents.   
  
One morning when a family member slipped food through the door, I decided to respond. "Thank you," I replied, laboriously shaping my sounds to perfection. I heard a gasp of shock and then a cry.   
  
"Mother!" the person screamed. It was the older brother whom I never had the chance to know. Inger was his name, I believe. I heard the sound of my mother rushing to the cellar door. For some reason, which is still imperceptible to me, I did not learn from my walking incident and still believed that there was a chance my parents would be proud of me. I swelled with pride. What a pathetic young child I was!   
  
"He spoke to me! He spoke!" Inger wailed frantically. "The devil taught him, mother, I know it!" continued the boy. Cautiously, my mother decided to test this statement.   
  
"Erik? What did you say?" she asked tentatively. Drawing upon what I had learned, I replied with certainty to her question.   
  
"Nothing, dearest."   
  
My mother screamed and ran. Again I did not receive food.   
  
I made myself happy by singing. I would imagine that my mother would hear me and fall in love and come make me her beloved son. We would sit by the fireplace and tell the stories that I had heard her tell Inger. Afterwards, Inger and I would play as I heard his friends do, with sticks as pirate swords and plain rocks as the diamonds, rubies, and emeralds. After all, I did not realize why I was kept down in the cellar, while my brother was living freely. I did not question the presence of the mask: I assumed that everyone wore one. I never realized the ugliness of my form because I did not even know what a mirror was, much less looked into one. I did not learn to read or write until I was ten.   
  
That was when the one person who ever truly cared for me came into my life. The little miracle of mine called Sven.   
  
  
  
Inger  
  
  
  
The fiend soon learned to walk and talk. There was no explanation for how he did it, except that some sort of goblin or ghost did the trick. How mother and father used to scream at the sight of his learnings! Before anything, he sang. His voice was deceiving. Erik was like a siren- he had the most beautiful voice, but had a ghastly appearance and, we feared, would kill us if he got the chance. I remember his first steps vividly, and still have nightmares about it to this day.   
  
It was summer. The days were warm and long. I had been playing at pirates and knights with my childhood friends that day, and everything seemed to be going as usual. That night, after saying my prayers, I slept well. Mother and Father retired later. We would all soon be awakened by an unexpected guest of the worst kind.   
  
I was thrust from slumber by a loud operatic note. It did not occur to me yet that this might be Erik. I heard a scream. As it sounded like Mother's, I hurriedly crept out of bed and open the door just a crack. I couldn't see anything. I did not exit my chamber, for I did not want to fall victim to whatever horror lay outside. I then heard another wail of disgust. I continued looking through the crack in the door to see what was happening.   
  
My father exited with a small crying demon in tow. I gasped at the figure of my brother. His eyes glowed like I had seen them do when I first saw his terrifying face. He looked at me as if pleading for help as my courageous father dragged him swiftly down the stairs. I was terrified and ran to my mother not just to receive comfort, but also to give comfort in return, for she was visibly shaken by it all. My family stayed together all night, comforting each other through this ordeal. As punishment, my mother refused to feed him for days afterward. I thought that she should have starved him for longer, but that would be murder, and if he died under our doings, we should have to face him yet again in hell.   
  
Perhaps the time that was most terrifying was when Erik learned to talk. As I was an older young boy, I was forced to take responsibility in taking care of him in small ways. I had neglected an earlier chore, so my punishment was to slip Erik food for the next week. It was merely to slide a tray of food through the slot and pick up the silverware when he was done. I had seen my mother do it many times, and quickly realized I was in no danger. I could not see his face or any trace of him for that matter. Although I was reluctant, it had to be done. It was time to face my fears. I was a devout Catholic, and God would protect me.   
  
It was the very first day of my punishment. I took the tray from Mother and went to the cellar door. After making a quick sign of the cross, I opened the slat and gave the boy food. Expecting no noise save chewing and sipping and the occasional musical phrase he would utter when Mother fed him foods he liked, I waited for the tray to come back. To my revulsion, he spoke to me.   
  
"Thank you," he said. I was terrified, for he could now speak spells and sorcery.   
  
"Mother!" I screamed. "He spoke to me! He spoke! The devil taught him, Mother, I know it!" I continued to wail as she comforted me.   
  
"Shhhhhhh, it's all right, Inger. Calm yourself. Did he really and truly speak to you?" I nodded timidly. Mother turned to the cellar door. "What did you say to him, Erik?" she shakily asked.   
  
"Nothing, dearest," he replied. Mother gasped and whisked me away into the dining room.   
  
"Don't you ever speak to him again, love. We don't want him learning any new words. Is that clear?" I nodded through my tears of fear. "Your punishment is lifted, and you are forbidden to go near the cellar until you have a family of your own and are a strong brave man. Erik has frightened you long enough." I was very grateful to my mother for saving me from further fright. I was true to my word and did not go near the cellar until I had my own wife and a beautiful baby daughter. Even then, I went only to protect young Sven from the monster's enticing and hypnotic ways.   
  
  
  
AN: Well, what did you think? Please review and tell me! Also for the many of us who think Christine's a moron, here's some wonderful proof. In the book during "Apollo's Lyre", Christine leads Raoul to the top of the Opera House to get away from the trap doors where Erik is hiding. However, in the next chapter, the couple goes to talk in Christine's dressing room. When Raoul questions the safety of the room, Christine tells him Erik vowed to never eavesdrop in on her dressing room. So, why didn't she drag Raoul there in the first place? Stupid ho. Next chapter on the way! ~ amarafay 


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